


A Catlike Love

by Iwantthatcoat



Category: Holmes & Watson (2018), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Comedy, M/M, cat people - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2019-09-27 21:51:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 2,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17170076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/pseuds/Iwantthatcoat
Summary: Yes, I just saw “Holmes and Watson” last night and I”m ficing it. I ficed Zoolander 2. This can’t possibly be more ridiculous, could it? You don’t need to have seen the movie, but, I suppose it helps.





	1. Chapter 1

When Holmes awoke the next morning, he instinctively turned to face his companion, only to find her sleeping between his legs. It was somewhat of a shock, until he remembered what Watson had told him upon the announcement of their engagement. His and Millie’s engagement, that is. He and Watson had not gotten engaged.

She had been raised by wild cats.

As he extricated himself from the bed, trying his best not to disturb her (and failing) she gave him the most dreadful of looks, placed her leg over her head and proceeded to— how was that even physically possible?

He watched her for a few moments, and then spoke. “My dearest Millie, I am concerned for your health. Onanism is inevitably fatal.”

“However else am I to clean myself?”

“Perhaps a bath? In the tub?”

She made an angry noise in the back of her throat and left the flat. 

Holmes sighed. The last time she had done so, she had not returned until the following morning


	2. Chapter 2

Holmes awoke the next morning in panic and darkness. He had been dreaming of Moriarty choking him, his subconscious forcing himself out of slumber when his nemesis succeeded in cutting off his very last breath of air. 

His fiancee was sitting upon his head. 

And not in a sexually deviant manner.

She refused to budge an inch until he mumbled that he would cook her a breakfast— himself, as Mrs “Hudson” had been unaccounted for since that fateful night when both he and God had saved the Queen. And Watson, of course. He was still neglecting to give Watson due credit, though the rescue had been his doing. 

She insisted upon freshly-prepared tuna, then took a small bite, poked at it aimlessly, and went back to sleep on a sunbeam which fell upon the hearth rug.

Millie was endlessly fascinating, but, as he continued to sort out this whole feelings lark, he was faced with the persistent notion that what he had toward her was nothing akin to love. He thought of the musical revelation he had had just last week. He was avoiding Watson out of fear.


	3. Chapter 3

The Good Doctor had married the Female Doctor as soon as she had disembarked the Titanic, immediately after realising it was not going to set sail until 1912. Not surprising, as Watson went through wives like Holmes went through cocaine. Which was quickly. Quite quickly at the moment. 

Millie was no help. She had vices of her own, and would often roll around on the floor with her own drug of choice, eyes dilated, kicking at it whilst the fabric pouch lay upon her stomach.

He cared deeply for Millie. She was an endless source of wonder, a puzzle he could never quite piece together. He turned to gaze upon her as she rolled to face him, licking her hand and using it to smooth her hair. 

“Why don’t you go speak with him, Sherlock?” she said, after the sunbeam had made its way behind the clouds. “It’s what I’d do if I were you. And if it was springtime. Go to his window, don’t let him avoid you, just sit there and yowl until he comes out. If he runs off, chase him under the settee. Then, if all goes well, you can bite him in the scruff of the neck and climb on top of him.”

Holmes was appalled. But she did have a point. He should talk to Watson


	4. Chapter 4

The last few days seemed a blur. He needed to think. 

Millie stared at him for several minutes before Holmes realised she was actually watching a small spot directly above his head. He stared back. Eventually, she broke eye-contact, looked indifferently about the room, and went to the mantlepiece to remove an item. He couldn’t determine what it was, save that it was long, thin, and fuzzy. Once she began to bat it about on the floor, he saw it clearly. It was a pipe cleaner. Yes, this was rather a three-pipe-cleaner problem, wasn’t it? 

He sat upon the sofa, nervously twisting a few strands of the pliant material until he felt ready to think once more, then looked down at his absent-minded creation. He had made a pipe-cleaner man. It reminded him of Watson. He wanted to cry. Feelings sucked. He wished he were feeling sucked instead. No, no, no, that was truly an inappropriate thought. What he and Watson had was far more noble than that. Well, theoretically had. Right now, they had nothing. 

He had secured Watson’s release from prison, but he couldn't shake the fact that he was somehow responsible for his arrest in the first place. Well, it was Mycroft’s fault actually. If he knew Mrs Hudson was involved he should have said so. Stupid smart Mycroft. He messed this all up and he should be the one to fix it. 

Holmes headed to the Diogenes Club.


	5. Chapter 5

At the Diogenes, he was greeted by a cold stare.  
Holmes stared back.  
Mycroft stared harder.  
Big Ben chimed in the distance.

_There. That should be enough conversation._

Holmes turned and left.

And that was when he could have sworn he heard it... right as he walked in the street. The quiet murmur of a distant orchestral accompaniment. He looked into the foggy London air, think with possibility. A song was coming. But first, it was time for a flashback.


	6. Chapter 6

_WEEKS PRIOR:_

 

Holmes stands outside Baker Street, oscillating upon the pavement, uncertain whether to go home or to the gaol or to a doss house and feeling quite ill, when the musical moment is suddenly upon him. And when such a musical moment is upon you, there is only one reasonable thing to do: sing.

Which is why Holmes finds himself doing just that in London’s streets, to the swelling of an unseen string orchestra. 

“Why am I reeling in confusion?  
What is this fever in my head?  
Is it pox? Is it gout?  
I can’t seem to work it out.”

Holmes sways; he needs to get to bed. He’s clearly quite ill.

Watson did not deserve this. He was his loyal friend, helped him work, took his side, sung his praises. If he does nothing, it will all end soon...and rather horribly at that. He sings some more:

“What is this strange sensation?  
Why am I a sobbing, trembling mess?  
And yet I know somehow  
If he could hear me now...  
I would forgive him.”

And he knows, despite the fear and confusion Watson would be feeling at this moment, that his Watson will somehow still forgive him..... No, they will still forgive each other. 

Oh. Holmes is a musician. He knows when he is in a distant counterpoint duet. It explains everything.

He heads to Millie for assistance, begging her to speak, and Millie sings, so Holmes will know she is about to give him critical information. 

“Sometimes the irrational is truer than the rational.  
The heart can have its reasons, which the head knows nothing of.  
Your brain says Watson’s guilty but a stronger force says, ‘no he’s not!’”

Others join in, though he doesn’t hear them exactly. After all, they aren’t there. But soon they are all singing “It’s love,” one after the other, until even Holmes is singing it and he is certain Watson is as well. The music ends.

“My God, did I push Watson away because I feared to lose him to Grace?” Millie nods silently as Holmes continues, “Somehow I know in my heart, in a way my brain can never know, even a brain like mine...Watson is innocent! Of course, I need evidence to free him!”

Millie bats over a crumpled piece of parchment from behind the settee with her foot. It’s a sealed envelope, with _‘My confession to move the plot along already and get it over with’,_ scrawled upon it in a feminine hand. He can use this to ensure Watson’s release, though he is vaguely aware that perhaps there is an entirely different form of release he is longing to ensure.

Holmes runs to the gaol, singing “Time to go save the man I love!” and is certain Watson is singing something quite similar in counterpoint. Perhaps, if he listens carefully, he may even hear Watson’s music, or a snatch of lyrics, but he can hear nothing but the sound of his own feet pounding upon the pavement as he runs to where Watson is being held, thinking: _the only one who should be holding Watson is me._


	7. Chapter 7

The smartest man in London had been responsible for this whole mess, and had been most unhelpful so far. Holmes’s confusion, and likely a severe illness, was making it impossible to know what step to take. He’d ask Millie for help once more.

He ran up the seventeen steps, and upon opening the door to his lodgings found Millie had destroyed Holmes’s scrapbook whilst waiting for him to return, silently glaring and clearly infinitely annoyed at his absence. It was far past lunchtime.

Millie stared a moment longer, just enough to make her displeasure fully known. “Did you come to me because you need a reprise?” she asked.

“Halloa, what?” said Holmes, in an uncharacteristically canon-compliant moment. “No, it’s... I have this strange sensation in my veins, and leaking eyes and there is—“

“A shameful ache. Yes. Same symptoms as before.”

“Before? So. This is, in fact, a recurring illness. A disease which perhaps could lie dormant for some time, only to return once more, rather unexpectedly. And one of the effects must be a semi-amnesiac state, which renders me—“

“Have you forgotten already? It was only a month ago. That force?”

Holmes looked at her, perplexed. “Force?”

“It’s...”

“Yes?”

“It’s...”

“Mass times acceleration? What of it?”

Millie sighed. “It’s love, you idiot!”

“Love?”

She rolled her eyes. “How can you be so smart and so stupid at the same time? I thought you’d figure it out before we had to repeat it quite so many times.”

“But isn’t that the song structure?”

“It’s love!” said Millie again. 

“It’s love!” repeated Holmes.

“ _Finally._ Listen...you can hear it.”

So Holmes did. And in the distance, he heard a voice. “It’s love!” the voice said.

“Why that sounds like...but it couldn’t be! Watson loves me? If only I could have additional validation from other more neutral sources!”

“It’s love,” sang Grace. “I just wanted someone help me lick a corpse. I try for that with every doctor I meet...but, you two have something special. Something timeless.”

“It’s love!” sang the Lestrades, who then kissed each other to illustrate the concept, in case Holmes was still too dense to get it, or think it was platonic.

“It’s love!” sang Mrs Hudson and her lovers...because once you see everyone agreeing, even though they don’t especially like you or even know who you are, you know it’s the truth.

And then he knew. 

Holmes could see it now; it was as clear the yellow filth built up upon the sulfur-stained windows. No, no, that’s a horrible analogy for a love song! As clear as the riv— no. Holmes struggled to come up with something clear in Victorian London, and abandoned the analogy entirely. Holmes was a musician. He knew when he was in a reprise of a distant counterpoint duet.

“Millie...I’m...I’m sorry. I can no longer give you my heart, for I am afraid it belongs to another. One who has been part of my life for so very long. One who I dared not think it of, who I had buried all my feelings for so deeply in my fear of his never being able to return that love. One I had gone to horrible lengths to keep away from me, in the hopes that it would not grow stronger, lest it ruin what joy we shared. But perhaps, what we have is far more suited to a friendship, Millie. Could you ever forgive me, for stealing your virtue and leaving you without a partner?”

“Whatever. Friend, lover, wife... I don’t care. I told you to go to him before. Will you go to him this time?”

“I fear I have no choice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BTW...as I have saved fandom from watching this in the theaters, please consider donating the cost of a ticket to AO3. Thank you.


	8. Chapter 8

“Holmes! Why, how...unexpected of you to drop by!”

“Just a brief social call, Watson. How are you?”

“Well, to be honest, I do feel rather ill as of late. I’ve this I have this strange sensation in my veins, and leaking eyes and there is—“

“A shameful ache? I have the same symptoms my dear Watson.”

“Good God, it’s contagious then?”

“No, no, I just...let me explain. But first, how is Mrs Watson?”

“Who?”

“Your wife! Grace Watson!”

“Grace...?”

“The female doctor? The one you married after she returned from the Titanic.”

“Oh. She left me.”

“Already? That was fast.”

“Well, she was a lick-corpses-and-leave kind of woman, I suppose.”

“Indeed. Well. That actually makes things far more simple. You see I.... I’m.... Well...”

“i thought you said you were ill.”

“My God, man...do you not recall the lyrics you were singing? Do you think just anyone gets a full-throated love song?”

“Is that what that was? I have never heard of such a thing before! I thought it was delirium caused by my impending death! And perhaps by the moldy bread and possibly poisoned red velvet cake.”

“Listen! You can hear it still!” 

Sure enough, Watson furrowed his brow in concentration and then smiled. “I can hear it, Holmes! A quiet piano playing just beneath my words. It sounds as if it is repeating.... No! It can’t be! For you are an automaton! A man who never laughs! Except that time with the stone, and the time with the other stone. And actually on our first case together, you laughed. And then you laughed at the King of Bohemia. And then you laughed for several minutes straight later that evening when you returned home after that Adler woman got married. You laughed so hard you exhausted yourself come to think of it. And when we had that case with the Australian, and the time that man left the hat in your place, and when Lestrade dragged the Serpentine and when the criminal dredged the moat. And that time when the murderer was a horse. And that time I felt bad for you because you knocked over the fruit bowl—that was mean-spirited, Holmes— and when you tried to read my mind, and when we discussed your brother. And when you knew I was at the club and that time you tricked me about your getting engaged, and then when you helped that college kid, and when I thought you were getting high but you weren't and, the time you found the missing boy and the cow-horse and had the bar fight and...and the time Baynes wanted to solve the case on his own. And when Evans tried to bribe you and... well... you... you laugh about ten times as much as I do. Do... do... do you think I have your characterization all wrong, Holmes?”

“My dear Watson, I believe you may have been mistaken. I do laugh when I am happy, and being on cases with you makes me happy. So, very happy. I do believe perhaps I...” Holmes looked pained. “might I sing it?”

Watson frowned. “No, Holmes. There may come a time when we will not have musical accompaniment, and whatever would we do then if we dare not speak it directly. If it is...what it is....we must find the courage to speak it aloud. I—“

“I love you, John Watson!” blurted out Holmes. “I love you and have for some time, and I only thought it hopeless, so attempted to bury my emotions, lest the pure joy of being around you would cause it to slip out.”

“Sherlock Holmes, I love you too!”

“Truly?”

“Truly. But you act, have always acted, in fact, as if you have experienced some deeply significant trauma during some level of your schooling which caused you to be guarded with your emotions far beyond the norm.”

“Elementary.”

“Ah, yes, the early wounds are the deepest. But it doesn't matter, for now you know you love me and I you.”


	9. Chapter 9

Back at Baker Street, Millie contorted her body into the longest of lines upon the sofa to think.

The division seemed rather unfair. She had done all the work in this business. Holmes gets a husband out of it, Alan Menken gets the credit, pray what remained for her? 

_Well,_ thought Millie, scratching the leather surface of the sofa with her fingernails, _For me, there still remains Mr Mousie._ And she stretched her long white hand up for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments eagerly sought. Thank you to Vulgarweed for pointing me in the direction of Brad Keefauver at 221B Con, who provided me with the lyrics to “Full-Throated Love Song” (yes, that’s the title) so I could finish this epic masterpiece. Thank you!!!!


End file.
